Doppelganger
by Everything In Its Right Place
Summary: Hawke is unwittingly sleeping with a demon disguised as Fenris. Their companions' misplaced blame leads him to the truth. F!Hawke/Fenris


Response to a kinkmeme prompt. Rated for safety. Not really graphic.

* * *

><p>There was a serious problem; that Fenris knew for sure. He had assumed so after receiving a note from a scruffy Darktown orphan in Anders's characteristic messy scrawl. Despite its clearly intentional simplicity, it had taken him nearly five minutes to puzzle it out.<p>

_Come see me now. Emergency._

_-A._

Upon entering the mage's dank clinic and seeing six matching accusatory glares pointed in his direction, his suppositions were confirmed. Characteristically, and because he had no idea what to say, the elf raised his eyebrows in question as the door swung shut behind him. There was a tense silence until Varric stepped forward.

"Fenris," the dwarf began, which set alarm bells ringing inside his head. He had only ever been referred to as _Broody_ or _Elf_ in that rich voice. "We know what's been going on, and, as much as I hate to interfere with you and Hawke's personal life, it's got to stop."

Dark brows furrowed in confusion under alabaster hair. "What?" he questioned in bewilderment.

"You're hurting her, Fenris," Sebastian replied with gentle reproach. His gut clenched. He was hurting her? He knew that there had been pain since their one glorious night together. He had felt it too, felt it still, a mass of emotion that roiled and burned at his insides. But things were improving. He had tried to be a better man, one that would be worthy of her attention.

"How?" he asked, keeping his voice as steady as he could despite the intense guilt he suddenly felt for whatever it was he had done to harm the woman he privately adored.

Merrill's sing-songy voice lilted like a melancholy dirge, "We are not quite sure. It may have something to do with your markings. I'm sure you've noticed how tired she's been lately." He nodded his head gravely. He had noticed. Her step was slower, days shorter, heading home from their adventuring before the sun had even begun to set.

"So, I should stop getting reading lessons," he spoke as carefully as he could, tried his best to mask the despair that was already bubbling up, threatening to drown him. "And I should take rear guard on quests or not–" He faltered. "Or not go."

Isabella's laugh clanged like a harbor bell. "Are you trying to protect her modesty? We all know what you two have been up to."

Confused, angry at being confused, he demanded, "What the hell are you talking about, woman?"

Anders pushed forward, irate. The deep, otherworldly echo of Justice drifted in and out of his voice like waves lapping at a shore. "You disgusting pig. We know you've been taking advantage of Hawke nearly every night. I took some readings without her knowing because I noticed the exhaustion. You're killing her with those horrid markings. You keep sapping her energy, and she will die! I won't let you do that!"

Fury lapped at his throat. "Taking advantage? Watch where you throw your accusations, abomination."

"Don't be coy," Isabella drawled in annoyance. "I saw you. I was sneaking into our fearless leader's estate to steal one of her sweet, little elf's desserts when I caught a glimpse of her with her other sweet, little elf," her tone verged on playful, "getting a different type of dessert."

Outrage flooded his features. She had spied on them, had sullied his one perfect memory of Hawke with her voyeurism. "How dare you," he struggled to unclench the hands that had unconsciously curled into tight fists. "Besides, that was only once, three years ago. How could that still be hurting her?"

"Ha! That was Tuesday!" She held a finger up to her lips and looked to the ceiling in a mockery of deep thought, "And Wednesday, and Thursday, and last night."

Jealousy froze him as effectively as any magic. It pushed images of random men pinning his everything to her bed, ferally humping her. His lip curled into a snarl. "That wasn't me!"

The pirate's gaze drifted up and down his body appraisingly. "Hate to break it to you sweetheart, but you're pretty unmistakable."

Something was very, very wrong. One bare foot stepped back, and his broadsword clanged against the closed door. His breath came in panicked gasps. "But I, I haven't touched her since–," he looked up at his companions, begged them to believe him, to help him sort out what the hell was going on. "It wasn't me!"

Aveline shook her head in sadness with her arms crossed over her chest. "Fenris, this is wrong. How could you treat her this way?"

"Treat her what way?" Terror, panic clawed at his throat. "It wasn't me!"

He looked at each of them in turn, saw the shame, the derisiveness, the fury, and he ran. The sound of Anders warning him to stay away from Hawke drifted out the door before it bounced off the wall with the force of being thrown open and slammed back shut.

His feet led him to her estate. He was thankful because his mind led him nowhere but to deep pits of despair and crashing oceans of jealous rage. A light was on in her bedroom. Part of him wanted to run, to flee back to his derelict mansion and hide from reality. The other part wanted to meet this impersonator face to face, so he watch as the life drained from the bastard's eyes. He moved before making a decision and scrambled up the ivy-covered trellis to her balcony. He crouched, seeing nothing behind the heavy, opaque curtains she kept covering the glass door. In total opposition to his desire to throw the door open and demand an explanation, he gently turned the handle, retreating as it opened the tiniest sliver.

Even through the thick fabric, he heard her desperate whimpers. They lanced through him like barbed arrows, stuck under his skin. Her voice strangled him with its breathy sweetness, "Please, not so rough."

It was the voice that joined her, a deep, familiar bass that rumbled across the floor that pushed him forward into the room. "I thought I said no talking." His voice.

There, on the bed before him was Hawke, splayed out in beautiful submission, but above her was some kind of sick mockery. Its hair was bone white. Thick lyrium markings stood out on its spine and curled into intricate, opulent patterns around and through old whip scars. It thrusted into her with abandon, pistoning its hips in a brutal rhythm. It adjusted its grip, and Fenris could see angry, red finger marks on the pale skin of her wrists.

"You're hurting me!" she cried.

"Shut up, you whore!" it hissed in his voice, low and intimidating, filled with vitriol. In the next moment, Fenris slammed into it with a roar, knocking it to the ground. He stood protectively in front of his beloved's bed, his sword trembling in his grip as he fought the violent fury within him. The thing on the ground twisted the mask of his face into a sinister sneer that looked entirely wrong. As it stood, his appearance dripped from its real skin like dried blood in the rain. Yellow-black eyes stared at him from between two horns, evil grin still in place.

"You finally came," it said, the demonic rasp making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. "I had wondered how much longer I could keep this up."

The elf hazarded a glance back at Hawke. She was sitting up with the sheet pulled to her chin. Her pale skin was nearly ashen, and her mouth hung open in absolute horror. He turned his attention back to his enemy, "What have you been doing to her?" he shouted.

"Feeding" it replied with a tilt of its head. Behind him, he heard dry retching. "The mage who brought me into this world is long dead, so I must take my energy from the desires of others, and who better to take it from than a distraught woman who was crying out for the man who left her?" Its grin stretched, and its voice lowered. "You must truly be cruel. I told her that it was to happen only at night, to not speak of it unless I came to her." Its laugh rang hollow. "She was willing to take whatever she could get."

"Kill it!" Hawke begged in a strangled cry, and it was dust on the floor with one furious swipe of his sword. Turning back, he found his beloved curled in on herself, her arms locked securely around her knees. She looked up at him with watery eyes and tears streaming down her cheeks like rivers after a heavy rain. She opened her mouth to speak but choked on her words and dropped her head to sob into the sheet.

Tentatively, he sat on the edge of the bed, placing his sword on the ground and removing his razor-edged gauntlets. Slowly, he reached out a bare hand to the hysterical woman and rested it lightly on her shoulder. "Hawke," he tried, "Marian, it's okay. I'm really me."

She moaned in despair and rolled over to vomit again in the nearby chamberpot. Unsure and uncomfortable, he rubbed soothing circles on her naked back. The feel of her skin made his hand tingle, but he attempted to ignore it and focus on her. She sat back and struggled to look him in the eye, so he retrieved a glass of water from a nearby pitcher to give her a moment to collect herself. Her eyes were grateful as she accepted it and gulped heavy swallows. "I thought... Oh, Maker, Fenris, I feel so disgusting."

He did not know what to say, did not know how to comfort this fragile, trembling woman who was normally his strong, fearless leader, but he did know what he had desired each time Danarius's slimy skin touched him. In a clean sweep, he scooped her into his arms, sheet and all and carried her to her adjoining bathroom. "I have to leave for a moment."

Terror-stricken, she grabbed on to him. "How will I know it's you?"

Tenderly, he lifted her hand up by the wrist. With his other hand, he touched the tips of all of her fingers with his own. "I am me," he whispered, then turned and went to the hall to retrieve Orana.

When he returned, holding two buckets of steaming water with Hawke's servant in tow, she looked at him with distrust. Her shoulders were hunched in, and she nearly cowered from him. He placed the water next to the tub and knelt on the floor at her feet. He extended an open hand toward her and gave his softest smile as she pressed the tips of her fingers to his. "Fenris," she breathed in equal parts relief and trepidation.

"Yes," he replied. They gazed at other for a long while, listening to the sound of water being poured and their own breath. When she finished, he turned to the blond elf who was trying not to stare. "Thank you, Orana. That's all we need." She nodded in acknowledgement, casting a last look of concern at her mistress as she left. Fenris touched the edge of the sheet Hawke had an iron grip on. "Marian," he whispered in the quiet, steamy room, "I'd like to help you clean up, if you'll let me."

She nodded, and he reverently removed the cloth before lifting her up and into the tub. She sighed shakily as he lowered her into the hot water. He softly smiled again as she sniffed cutely and eyed the wet leather and feathers clinging to his arms. "I got you soaked," she mumbled.

"It's fine," he reassured her and removed his armor and tunic, leaving him in his tight leggings.

Settling next to the tub, he gently wiped her back with a sponge. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. "Please forgive me."

He ran the sponge across her quaking shoulders. "There is nothing to forgive. You were tricked. The person to blame is whatever _mage_ let that thing loose on the world." He brought the sponge to the back of her neck and squeezed, pouring warm water down her spine. "I blame you for nothing." He didn't mention the fact that he blamed himself, that he was horrified she could believe he'd ever act so cruelly toward her. She cried almost noiselessly as he continued to gently scrub her.

"What if they try this again?" she whispered when the water began to cool and her tears had long run dry. The water sloshed as she shifted to face him fully. "What am I going to do?"

Fenris took a deep breath to steel himself. He felt emboldened by her weakness, by the obvious interest she still had even after all this time, by his burning desire to keep her safe. He lifted a hand up; soapy water dripped down his forearm and off his elbow. She carefully pressed her fingertips to his. "If you will allow me to, I will teach you the feel of my touch so well, you will always know me. I will be there every night to protect you."

"Please," she whispered, and he carried her to the bed, laying her gently on her side. He crawled next to her, and she wrapped her wet body around him. He touched her lightly, fondly, everywhere he could reach until their skin was dry and she couldn't hold her eyes open anymore, then he carefully tucked her under the covers. Holding her back to his chest, he did his best not to disturb her as he quietly despaired over her plight.

In the morning, Hawke awoke to his gaze. He grinned softly and lifted his hand up. She pressed her fingers against his, then turned to wrap her arms around him and rest her head on his chest. "Fenris," she breathed across his skin, and he watched as she fell back asleep to the steady beating of his heart.

* * *

><p>Well, there you have it. It didn't end in sexytimes because I felt Hawke would be a little too traumatized for that on the same night she discovered she was sleeping with a demon. Really, overall, it ended up being significantly angstier than I had originally intended, but I'm still pleased with the result. I hope you enjoyed it. Please let me know what you think.<p> 


End file.
